


Carcanet

by trademarkgiggle



Series: Trust Fall [2]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Begging, Collars, Crying, Dom/sub, Edging, Established Relationship, M/M, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:30:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23973925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trademarkgiggle/pseuds/trademarkgiggle
Summary: Patrick gets his collar.
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Series: Trust Fall [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668532
Comments: 27
Kudos: 330





	Carcanet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heartstrings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartstrings/gifts).

> Belated consolation porn ft. collaring, sex tears, romantic sex, extra toppy Jonny (*chef's kiss*), and Jonny making Patrick beg while he's inside him... I think I hit all those notes, this was so much fun to orchestrate!!
> 
> [This](https://mysecretheartstudios.com/collections/neck-wear/products/bdsm-locking-day-tangled-collar-unisex-submissive-bondage-slave-collar-silver-gold-made-to-order-8875sg) is the inspiration for Patrick's collar. I imagine the chains at the back are longer and more delicate, and the lock's more [along these lines](https://i.etsystatic.com/17767001/r/il/51ec77/2314274949/il_794xN.2314274949_mlh1.jpg).

Patrick's in bed with a tablet, a sheaf of papers, and only himself for company. He's not exactly sure what's taking Jonny so long, but for once he's almost glad to have the room to himself. He's using one of their contoured foam cushions to hold his notes; the next time Jonny flips him facedown and fucks him on this thing, Patrick's going to be stuck thinking about Illinois statutes when he comes. On the other hand, if he tells Jonny that, Jonny will take it as a personal challenge and fuck Patrick so hard he blacks out, and then he won't be thinking about anything.

It's also possible he's trying to distract himself. He uses the sheet to wipe a smudge from the tablet screen, and then the mattress dips and Jonny's beside him.

Patrick doesn't look up; his lips twitch with the effort of keeping a straight face. "Took you long enough," he says.

"I couldn't find my cannon pinion remover."

"Your what?"

"My cannon pinion remover. It's for removing cannon pinions," Jonny says. "Are you using the sex pillow as a tablet stand?" 

"Yeah, no, I got that part. What's a cannon pinion?" As soon as he says it, the answer comes to him. "Watch parts. It's a watch part."

"Yeah," Jonny says. His eyes have slipped to Patrick's chest. The t-shirt Patrick's wearing might be a little too tight.

"You're never going to fix that thing."

"Not without my cannon pinion remover, I won't," Jonny says. What he means is that he doesn't want the watch to beat him. "What's with all the paperwork?"

"Just reading about libel," Patrick says, and it takes Jonny about three seconds to connect the dots. He flops over on his back with a groan, but his grin is poorly hidden.

"Still?"

"Yes, _still,"_ Patrick says. "That guy's a dick, he shouldn't be allowed to keep coming after you."

"He's a sports journalist. He's allowed to have an opinion, Peeks, it isn't libel just because you disagree."

Patrick grunts.

"And you already got most of his access revoked."

That's true.

"And he's not going to change his mind no matter how much effort you put into it."

Patrick's worked bigger miracles with less, but at least for tonight, he's willing to cede the point. Apparently he doesn't have much of a choice, either, because Jonny's started carefully collecting all of Patrick's printouts and stacking them in the correct order. He shuffles those and Patrick's tablet over to his nightstand, and Patrick helps by sliding the cushion under the bed. He'll put it back where it goes in the morning. 

When the bed's clear (not that it isn't large enough to hold two men and as many sex pillow tablet stands as they might need), Jonny stretches out on his side and says, "Hey. Come here," and Patrick goes.

Jonny's hair is sticking up, and he's shirtless; Patrick surprised he's wearing pants at all. On a usual night they'd both have stubble coming in, but they're clean-shaven from a public appearance earlier that evening. Jonny still smells a little like his shaving soap. Patrick's cataloging his scents, a new one every week; last year he'd thought he knew everything there was to know about Jonny, and now he's learning something every day.

"You know she didn't mean anything by it," Jonny says.

Patrick turns his face into his pillow. "Yeah," he says. "No, I know. It's not a big deal."

"Isn't it?"

At the function they'd been at, one of the donors had very politely asked if Jonny intended to put a collar on Patrick any time soon. Patrick had gritted his teeth and asked her where she was from. Jonny had removed himself from the room. Patrick found him out in the lobby ten minutes later, still seething over what he saw as an intrusion into their personal life. There were few things that Jonny guarded as ferociously as their privacy.

Maybe the root of it is that neither of them are used to their relationship being public. They've made it known that they're together, but they still don't act like a couple at work, or at least no more than they did before they were in a relationship. Jonny's been fanatic about not undermining Patrick's image—about making it clear that Patrick's a leader in his own right, that in the locker room he's a hockey player before he's a sub, and that their relationship won't have a detrimental effect on the team. Patrick appreciates that. He appreciates that Jonny's made his respect so clear, he really does.

He answers Jonny's question with, "I don't know."

"It's okay if it is," Jonny says. "It's none of her business. It's not anyone's business, and it pisses me off when people try to act like it is."

"Jonny. It's a normal question."

"Yeah? Well, it's a fucking garbage question," Jonny says, and Patrick's mind goes back to a conversation they'd had not quite a year ago where Jonny went on a tear about subs being called brats. "Subs aren't required to wear collars, and doms aren't required to offer them."

Patrick swallows. "I know." There are plenty of traditionalists who'd disagree, but subs now are just as likely to refuse a collar as they are to wear one. Some subs even liked to wear multiple collars at a time to flaunt their desirability. Patrick can't imagine that. He can't imagine wanting more than one collar, even if collars don't have the significance they once did. Some doms offer collars to every sub who joins them in bed.

"And I don't appreciate anyone implying that you should have to wear a collar," Jonny adds. "Or that it makes you less of a sub if you don't. The idea that we're not in a 'real' relationship"—he uses one hand to make air quotes—"if you don't have a collar is offensive."

"Yeah," Patrick says. It is. It drives him up the fucking wall. He's never even let himself think about wanting one. "The fanbase is pretty… can be pretty traditional, though. Maybe it would be better if I did wear a collar," he says, and then he just about fucking kicks himself. What if Jonny thinks Patrick's trying to pressure him into—? 

"They don't get to comment on it," Jonny says, like the idea of being pressured never crossed his mind. "It's your decision not to wear one, not theirs."

Yeah. Jonny's right; it is Patrick's decision, one he gets to make without the input of fans that think he's loose or management that tells him not to draw attention to his status. Patrick's worked hard to be taken seriously despite a couple of major slip-ups when he was younger. He's been working at it since the age of seven.

In another sense, though, it isn't Patrick's decision at all. He's never been offered a collar.

"You know I'd never think less of you, right?" Jonny adds. "Or consider our relationship any less of a commitment."

One of the things that Patrick's slowly learning is how to ask for what he needs. He has no problem with that in other contexts, about snapping at people to leave his sticks alone or making sure everyone knows to put lemon slices in his water bottles; but in a romantic relationship and especially in the bedroom, he's good at making his hard limits clear and crap at everything else.

He's not sure how to ask about this, though. He's not sure if he should ask, if he even _wants_ to ask. Maybe Jonny, now that he has Patrick, would rather see him without a collar. Maybe Jonny _likes_ that Patrick doesn't wear a collar—there are time when he seems possessive, and times when that possessiveness is entirely absent. Maybe Patrick even likes himself better without one.

"Everyone knows you don't wear a collar," Jonny says.

"Right," Patrick says, "yeah."

"You never have to wear one."

Patrick swallows. "No," he says.

"Not wanting a collar doesn't make you any less of a sub."

"I—yeah," Patrick says. "I know."

"Good," Jonny says. "I'm glad you know."

Patrick knows. He _knows._ He understands.

"Because I have a collar to offer you," Jonny adds, and maybe Patrick doesn't understand at all.

"...What?" he says. His mouth is dry, and his voice comes out husky. It's too big to contain; he sits up, takes a breath. Looks down at the bedspread. Twists around and says, "Jonny—?"

Maybe it's too big for Jonny to contain, too, because he levers himself upright and reaches out to cup the side of Patrick's neck. Patrick leans into the touch automatically, seeking it even though not long ago he would've pulled away. 

"You don't…" Jonny starts, and Patrick realizes: he's nervous. He's _scared_. This means as much to him as it does to Patrick, and maybe more. "You don't have to take it," he says. "You definitely don't have to wear it. You can stick it in a drawer and never look at it, or you can just leave it out to display, or I can have it melted down and made into something else—"

"Can I see it?"

"...Yeah?" Jonny says, with the start of a smile, and then he jerks away and rolls onto his side. "I mean—yeah, for sure, just let me—" 

Patrick peers over his shoulder; he's rummaging through the drawer of his nightstand, which Patrick never opens because he can't look at the nightmare array of junk Jonny stores in there. After a couple of seconds of digging through watch parts and charger cables and god knows what else, Jonny extracts a flat velvet box and sits back up. He starts to offer it to Patrick, and then he stops and says, "Are you sure?"

Patrick's dumbstruck by the sight of the box; it's a rich blue stamped in the top with a rose gold logo of two hands bound at the wrist. Harry Winston and Cartier are famous the world over, but no jeweler makes collars more iconic than Frey & Merritt.

Patrick couldn't be more sure if he tried.

"Yes," he says, and Jonny offers the box to him.

"I fully intend to drape you in diamonds at some point," Jonny says, "if that's something you want, but I thought at first something simple might be better."

Patrick brushes his thumb over the logo, and then he cracks it open. The collar Jonny picked is slender; Patrick's never seen anything like it. It's made of silver and braided gold wire twisted together with a delicate gold chain so fine he almost can't see the links: a rope in miniature of silver and gold to sit around the base of his throat.

His heart's in his mouth when he reaches out to touch it: but before his fingertips make contact, he looks up at Jonny.

"I don't," he says, "I don't know if—"

"Hey," Jonny says, "it's okay, sweetheart, you don't have to take it."

"No!" Patrick tightens his grip on the box. "I want—but I don't think… not in public."

Jonny's intent look softens, and the corner of his mouth starts to twitch up. "That's okay," he says.

"But I want it to wear at home," Patrick adds.

"Yeah? You like it?"

Patrick laughs a little; he eyes are wet. "Jonny," he says. "I never thought—" He laughs again, shakes his head, and drags the back of his hand under his nose, which is gross but does nothing to undercut his pleasure in the moment. "Yeah," he says. "I love it."

Jonny grins back at him. "Gonna let me put it on you?"

Patrick answers by climbing into Jonny's lap.

Jonny rocks backward a bit and laughs. "Okay, baby," he says, "I guess that's a yes. Hang on." He repositions them so his back's against the headboard and Patrick's straddling him; Patrick's clutching the open box in one hand, his thumb pinning the collar in place against the soft gray lining, and it takes him a moment to work up to letting it go when Jonny tries to take it from him.

"I'm going to give it right back to you," Jonny says dryly. Patrick finally lets go, and Jonny rewards him with a kiss to his cheek that Patrick echoes. After he kisses Jonny's jaw, he tilts forward so his forehead falls against Jonny's shoulder. It bares the nape of his neck.

In the cavity between their chests, Jonny takes the collar out of the box and unfastens the lock. It's threaded through the bit of chain at the collar's back; when Patrick has it on, the two trailing ends of chain will fall down the back of his neck. And Jonny's so warm. When he puts the collar on Patrick's neck, it'll be just as warm from his hands.

"Ready?" Jonny says.

Patrick nods without glancing up. He has the fleeting thought that he should lift his head and look at Jonny, but Jonny seems to understand. He always understands. Patrick hopes he's as understanding in return; he works every day at being as devoted to Jonny as Jonny is to him. It's a high bar, but he's not going to stop trying.

Jonny kisses his ear. "Okay, baby," he says, and then he settles the collar around Patrick's neck. "Too tight?"

"Nnn. No," Patrick says.

His hands brush the top of Patrick's spine, and then Patrick hears the almost inaudible sound of the little lock snapping shut. Jonny slides a finger under the collar, checking the fit, before arranging the tails of chain and smoothing them into place. Patrick doesn't see what he does with the key.

"How's it feel?"

He was right; the metal was warmed by Jonny's handling. Even when he cranes his neck, he can't see it on himself. It feels good, though. It feels right. It feels like Jonny's got a hand on his throat—not to press or choke, just to hold and keep.

Patrick swallows, more to feel the collar than because he needs to, and then he lifts his head. "Good," he says. "How's it look?" A little ridiculous with the old t-shirt he's wearing, probably, but it doesn't _feel_ ridiculous. 

Jonny extends a finger and traces a line from one of Patrick's collarbones to the other; he intersects the collar at the base of Patrick's throat, and then he fits his curled fingers under Patrick's chin to raise his head. 

"It looks like you're mine," Jonny says, and a tidal force of realization slams into Patrick; for the first time he not only sees but feels the weight of all those years Jonny spent loving Patrick without knowing that Patrick loved him back, without expectation of reciprocity—all those years Jonny lost not to waiting but to merely enduring. 

"I am," Patrick confesses.

"I know," Jonny says. "You always were." He hooks a finger under the collar and pulls. Patrick almost tells him that he's glad he can give this to Jonny, but Jonny might read that as another manifestation of Patrick's fears about all the things Patrick can't give them. He isn't afraid, though—he's happy, he's so happy to have this for himself, and he's so happy to offer all that meaning up to Jonny.

Patrick doesn't wait for Jonny to finish reeling him in. He surges forward and kisses him, and Jonny laughs into his mouth and takes. He kisses Patrick and pulls away long enough to peel Patrick's shirt over his head—carefully, so it doesn't catch on Patrick's collar—and then he kisses Patrick again, and again, and a fourth time, before he grabs him by the waist and tumbles him to the mattress. 

Jonny smirks down at him. He's insufferable and impossible and Patrick adores him, adores looking up at him, adores being loved by him. Sometimes he can't stand the enormity of it, which is why he says, "You have something in your teeth."

"What?" Jonny says. "No, I don't."

"How do you know?"

"Because you wouldn't have waited this long to give me shit about it," Jonny says. "What if I ordered you to never make fun of me?"

"Trying to find out if I'd obey?" Patrick asks. He reaches up and taps a finger against Jonny's lips. "Doesn't matter. You wouldn't ever."

Jonny raises his brows. "No?"

"No. You like me mouthy." He twerks the tip of Jonny's nose and grins. "You like me being me."

Jonny pretends to snap his teeth at Patrick's finger, and Patrick retaliates by poking him in the forehead and then grunts when Jonny drops his full body weight on Patrick. Round over. Patrick isn't going anywhere; he doesn't want to go anywhere, but he likes knowing that Jonny's invested in him staying. He's abruptly aware of how hard his dick is—thanks to the sensation of the collar around his neck, thanks to being pinned by his dom, and thanks as always to just being in the same room as Jonny.

"Yeah, I do," Jonny says, and it takes Patrick a minute to remember what they were talking about. "I like you being mine, too." Patrick feels himself flush, and then flush even more when Jonny kisses the side of his neck just above his collar. 

"I was trying to figure out how to ask for it," Patrick admits. "Or even if I should ask for it."

"Would you have?"

He thinks about that while he presses his mouth against Jonny's shoulder and breathes in the smell of his skin. "Yes," he says. "It would've taken me a while, though. A couple of days to think about it, and to… just to realize it was okay to ask even though I have limits for when I want to wear it."

Jonny pushes himself up again to look Patrick in the eye. "You know I'm always going to be _your_ dom no matter what, right?"

"I know," Patrick says, because he does, and because he likes the reassurance. He's getting better at that balance—at knowing it's okay to express his doubts without ruminating so much on his uncertainties that he lets fear swallow him. "You have to keep being my dom," he jokes. "You gave me a collar, babe, there's no escaping now."

"Demanding," Jonny says. "I like it."

Patrick parts his lips expectantly and tips his chin back, and Jonny leans down to kiss him. "Your fault for—mm. For spoiling me," he says. He sounds breathy. Jonny kisses his mouth again, and then his chin, and then he bites gently at the base of Patrick's throat, just above the collar. Patrick's going to have a whole trail of bite marks down his neck and shoulder, and it won't be the first time. It's the kind of bruising he not only allows but likes. The hand-shaped bruises that sometimes show up on his arms are acceptable, too; they make for a nice counterpoint to the rope marks that linger on his body.

"I might make you beg for me tonight," Jonny says. He might as well be commenting on the weather. "What do you think, Peeks?"

Patrick freezes, but he must make some kind of noise, because Jonny laughs; it's low and dark and feels as liquid as Patrick's spine.

Jonny nips his collarbone. "I don't actually have to ask, you know," he says, "not when you have my collar on. You don't want me to ask, do you?"

Patrick shudders. "No. I trust you."

"I know you do, sweetheart," Jonny says. He sucks one last mark into Patrick's shoulder and then sits back to strip Patrick of his flannel pants. Patrick lifts his hips obediently; he wants to reach down and rub his cock, but he keeps his hands loose on the mattress on either side of his head. Jonny doesn't miss how he twitches, though; he tosses Patrick's pants on the floor and then leans down and blows on the head of Patrick's cock. Patrick's hips jackknife without his permission, and he barely bites back a whine. 

"Making you beg might be too easy," Jonny says. "I think instead you _aren't_ going to be allowed to beg for me. Do you understand?"

God. Yeah, Patrick understands. "Yes," he says.

"What are the rules?"

"Don't—" Fuck, Jonny's mouth is still so close to his dick. "Don't beg," he gets out.

"Good, baby," Jonny says, and then he steps back off the bed to strip off his own pants. He's hard, too, and leaking a little; there's a glistening bead of precome rolling down the underside of his thick cock.

Patrick swallows. "What if I do?"

"If you do what?"

"If I… if I beg."

Jonny circles the bed and digs around in his nightstand again. The drawer slides shut, and he tosses a bottle of lube so it lands on the bed next to Patrick. (Pjur Back Door—Jonny's preferred brand. It looks like a parody, but it gets the job done.)

"Open it," he says. Patrick sits up, unscrews the cap, and carefully tips a little onto his right hand. "Spread your legs," Jonny adds, and Patrick does that, too; he braces his left hand behind himself and parts his legs. His toes are pointed, his feet are flat against the mattress. He'd almost be happy if Jonny would just come back and breathe on his cock again.

"What happens if you beg," Jonny says thoughtfully. He's back at the foot of the bed, and he crosses his arms and leans against the bedframe, totally unconcerned about his own nudity or his fat, hard dick. Meanwhile, Patrick's right hand is still extended and upturned to hold the little pool of lube, and he can't stop thinking about how exposed and vulnerable the underside of his wrist feels.

"If you beg, you'd better make the most of it," Jonny tells him, "because if you can't convince me to touch you, then we'll stop everything, and maybe tomorrow we'll revisit whether you get to come or not. How's that sound, baby?"

Patrick almost says _Please,_ he almost says _Please, no,_ and he stops himself right before it trips off his tongue. He's so used to Jonny coaxing him to ask for what he wants—to Jonny pulling his desires out of him—that it's become unthinking, a feature of that warm gold haze that Jonny guides him into. He's going to be good, though. He has to be good. No, that isn't right; he's good already. He's wearing Jonny's collar, and that proves it.

"Okay," he says.

Jonny grins. "Good, Peeks," he says. "I want you to finger yourself for me, sweetheart. Spread your legs a little more—there you go."

Patrick can't figure out how to spread the lube on his fingers one-handed, so he shifts forward so he can use his other hand, too. The angle isn't good—or rather, it's probably good for Jonny, but Patrick isn't really exposed enough to do more than dip a finger inside his hole. His wrist is rubbing against his cock and balls, though; he lifts his hand to hover over his dick and then glances at Jonny for permission.

"That's fine, baby," Jonny says, and he sounds like he's amused by his own willingness to indulge Patrick. Patrick makes a noise of relief and pets down the length of his cock and then again, this time more firmly, before he wraps his hand around it. The position forces his back into an artificial arch. He lets his head tip back to put his collar on display.

"Does that feel good?" Jonny asks.

Patrick strokes up his length and back down. He'd probably come if Jonny breathed on him. That's a lie—Jonny would have to tell him he's allowed to come first.

Patrick's trying to be careful, but he still shudders. "It feels good," he admits. He rubs his thumb over the head, smearing lube and precome over the slit and around the crown. "Yeah, it—it feels good." He glides his hand back down and then starts jacking himself with a loose grip. His cock is throbbing; it's a good thing he's wearing his collar, or his restraint would be out the window. There's a white knot building at the top of his spine and he's performing for his dom, and if Jonny would just give him permission, he'd be able to—

"Stop," Jonny says.

Patrick snatches his hand away before he's aware of what he's doing. His cock slaps against his belly, and he makes a noise of distress that absolutely qualifies as a whimper.

"Something you wanted to say, Peeks?" Jonny suggests. He isn't even touching himself. Patrick wants to put a garbage bag over his biceps. A winter coat. If Jonny likes his shoulders half as much as Patrick likes Jonny's, they'll never have to worry about a dead bedroom. Saying that wouldn't count as begging, would it? Patrick isn't sure. Patrick just wants to come.

"No," he says. His voice comes out rough, so he tries again: "No."

"Touch your collar."

Patrick reaches up with the hand that was on his cock, but he stops just shy. His fingers are still covered in lube. He looks up at Jonny to check with him, but Jonny just looks back, completely impassive. Will it hurt—is it okay to touch the collar? He doesn't want to harm it or get it dirty, but Jonny's giving away nothing, so Patrick does as he's told.

"Good job, baby," Jonny says. "We can clean it later. You're taking good care of what I gave you, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Patrick says. "I'm trying."

"I can tell, sweetheart. Hook your fingers through the front—there you go." Patrick slides two fingers under it. "After this maybe I'll let you look at yourself in the mirror. You're gorgeous in gold." This is almost more overwhelming than touching his cock; his slick fingers are up against his throat, pressing his collar against the back of his neck and making the twin tails of the chain slide against his nape.

"If I'm so—" Patrick cuts himself off.

"What was that, Peeks?"

"...Nothing." Anything he asks at this point is going to mean _Please touch me._

Jonny smirks. He's very obviously getting off on this. 

"Tug on it," he says. "Not hard, don't hurt yourself. Does it feel like it's going to come off?"

Patrick's breath hitches. "No," he says.

"Why not?"

"Because it's locked."

"Let go of your collar," Jonny says. He laughs when Patrick whines. "I know, baby, but I want you to finger yourself."

Patrick has far too much skin for this to be sustainable. He has far too much skin and he'd really like Jonny to touch him now, please. Instead of begging, though, he pulls his legs under him so he's on his knees with his ass on his heels. He widens his legs without having to ask.

"Do you need more lube?" Jonny asks.

He has to make himself stop and concentrate to answer. "Are you going to—am I going to take your cock?"

"That's up to you," Jonny says. He's being obnoxiously smug. If Patrick were less inclined to get down on his belly and beg for Jonny to touch him, he'd throw a shoe at Jonny's head. He shoots Jonny what he hopes amounts to a narrow-eyed look of defiance but which he suspects only suggests pliability and desperation, and then he unscrews the lid of the lube again. Maybe assuming he'll get what he wants by the end of the night is stupidly optimistic, but Patrick didn't get this far in life without stupidity, optimism, and a deep well of stubbornness. 

He drops his head and reaches behind himself. His erection is flushed a dark, rosy red, and he wonders if pointing out how painful it looks would get him anywhere. He glances up at Jonny and decides—no. Probably not.

He can't stop himself from gasping softly when his fingers touch his rim; there's no way Jonny missed the quick shocked way he sucked in his breath, and it makes him aware that he's rigid, his muscles locked tight against his struggle for control. He exhales and focuses on relaxing his jaw, his shoulders, and his feet, and then he dips a finger inside.

"Take it out," Jonny says, and Patrick groans and pulls his hand away. "Just touch your rim," he instructs. "Don't put your fingers inside. Does your hole feel tight?"

Patrick swallows. "Y-yeah," he says. He drags his fingertip over his rim and spreads his legs a little wider. He's always been sensitive here, but it's a hundred times worse with Jonny's eyes on him.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" Jonny asks idly. He's still leaning against the bedpost, and his dick's still hard, and he still looks like he a self-satisfied king strolling through a castle of his own construction.

He's gotta… if he wants Jonny to touch him, he has to be careful. "I—Jonny." No, not that. "I like it when you fuck me." 

"I know you do, baby." Jonny's so gentle. "I know you do. Put your fingers inside of yourself. Don't move them." Patrick whines again and doesn't bother hiding it. "I know, sweetheart. You're being so good for me. Why was it that you can't take your collar off?"

"Jonny—"

"Why can't you take your collar off?"

"It's." Patrick's fingers are just shy of pressing against his prostrate, and the anticipation of that lightning-bolt sensation has him shivering. "It's locked."

"Who has the key?" Jonny asks.

Patrick wants to move his fingers, he wants to touch his dick. He wants to crawl forward and put his mouth over Jonny's cock and breathe his hot breath against Jonny's skin. What was the question?

"Who has the key to your collar," Jonny prompts.

Oh, that's— 

"You," Patrick says.

Jonny laughs softly. "That's right, Peeks," he says, and then he holds out his fist and opens it. A chain drops down; there's a little gold key caught on the end. It's so small that from where he is, Patrick can't even see the notches. He leans forward for a better look and has to catch himself on one hand when he loses his balance. It jars the fingers he has hooked inside of his ass, and he grunts at the jolt and then whines in frustration.

"All right, baby," Jonny says. "Take your fingers out and wipe your hand." Patrick's blown past thinking about keeping the sheets clean, but Jonny still says, "I'll change them later. Now come here, sweetheart. Bring the lube with you."

Patrick fishes the lube out of the blankets and then crawls forward until he's perched on his knees at the edge of the bed. He's shaking with the difficulty of not crawling straight into Jonny arms—but that's tantamount to begging with his body, isn't it? He's no longer sure what counts.

"Hold your hand out," Jonny says, and then he drops the chain so it pools in Patrick's cupped palm. He isn't sure what he's supposed to do with it. Does Jonny want him to take off the collar? He looks up at Jonny, and Jonny smiles and says, "Put it on me." 

Patrick doesn't know if he can manage a clasp; his hands are still a little slippery with lube, but when he lifts it up, he realizes it's long enough to slip over Jonny's head. It hangs to Jonny's breastbone, and Patrick has a sharp shock of realization: he hasn't ever seen Jonny wearing a key before, not even one tucked down the front of his shirt. A key worn by a dom only means one thing. 

Jonny's never given a collar to a sub before.

"Thank you, sweetheart," Jonny says. He reaches out to cup Patrick's face. "Now kiss me."

If Patrick were any less an exposed nerve, he'd be beaming. As it is, he's shaking as he presses against Jonny. Their cocks brush together, and the only reason he doesn't come is that Jonny bites down on his lower lip. No, that isn't true; he's not allowed to come. If he asks for permission, he loses, and he doesn't want to lose. He just wants to rub his cock against Jonny's.

Jonny pulls back and kisses the tip of Patrick's nose. "Slick my cock up."

Yeah. Okay. That sounds like—like maybe it could be a step in the right direction. His hands aren't steady; when he opens the lube, he spills it and then jerks back in horror. 

"You're okay," Jonny says. "Look at me, Peeks—there you are. It's okay, sweetheart, you didn't do anything wrong." He takes the lube out of Patrick's hands and screws the cap back out. "You're good, baby."

"Yeah," Patrick says. He doesn't apologize, because he doesn't need to apologize. "Yeah. I am good."

"You are," Jonny says, and he takes Patrick's slick hands in his own and then bends forward to press a kiss to his forehead. "You okay to keep going?"

"Yes ple—" Patrick clamps his mouth shut and shudders. "Yes," he says. "Yeah, Jonny, I want to keep going." He might not have gotten that exactly right, but Jonny will know what he means—that he means _please_ outside of the scene, not within it.

Jonny kisses his forehead again. "Okay," he says. "Get my cock wet. Think you have enough lube?"

There's a joke Patrick could make here, but it isn't coming to him. He'd really like Jonny to touch him—fuck him, jack him off. Breathe on his cock. "Yeah," he says, but he isn't really paying attention. He sits back and wraps one hand around Jonny's cock and then the other, works them up and down to smooth the lube along his length, twists his wrists because his fingers don't meet around the girth of it. A little of this lube goes a long way. Even with how big Jonny is—if Jonny fucks him—

He likes how Jonny's cock feels against his hands, against his fingers. He likes the tactile sensation of the lube. Jonny's skin is so warm. He draws his flat palm over the very tip of Jonny's dick and shivers.

"—Peeks," Jonny's saying. "There you are. That's good enough, baby. Lie back for me." He touches Patrick's shoulder to steady him, and Patrick quivers. Under his breath, Jonny says, "Patrick, _fuck."_

The problem is that Jonny keeps touching him at discrete points: his mouth, his shoulder, his hands. It isn't enough. Patrick wants to press his whole body against Jonny's. He wants not just touch but weight. He wants Jonny to touch his skin.

But Jonny settles him and arranges him with minimal touch. He ends up with his ass at the very edge of the bed, which was custom-built to Jonny's height and for Jonny's comfort while fucking a sub. Is Jonny going to fuck him? He wraps his hand around Patrick's ankle, and Patrick shudders.

"Anything you want to say, baby?" Jonny says.

The lock at the back of Patrick's collar is pressing into his neck. "Jonny," he says.

"Yeah, Peeksy?"

Patrick opens his mouth, shuts it, and swallows.

Jonny laughs, but for the first time it sounds strained. "Okay, sweetheart," he says. "I'm going to fuck you. You aren't allowed to come. Understand?"

Yeah. Yes, Patrick understands. If he asks to come, he loses, and Patrick Kane doesn't lose.

"Answer me," Jonny prompts.

Oh. "Yes," Patrick says, and then he feels the tip of Jonny's cock against his hole as Jonny pushes in.

They go slow. They have to go slow. Patrick's better at this than he used to be, but Jonny's dick is mammoth. Patrick's shaking with the effort of not coming—of not asking to come. By the time Jonny's all the way in him, Patrick is nothing but tension. Jonny presses into him, and then he goes still.

And then he _stays_ still. He's looking down at Patrick and his eyes are so dark; there are times when looking at Jonny makes Patrick too overwhelmed to contain what he feels, so he shies away from looking, but he's looking now. He can feel how his hole is stretched wide and tight around Jonny, and he thinks about how Jonny's inside of him and Jonny's looking down at him and Jonny put a collar on his neck, and his back arches and his entire body contracts around Jonny's cock. His hands are knitted together under his chin, his elbows are clamped against his sides; he isn't looking at Jonny anymore, because his eyes are scrunched shut to contain the tears that he can't keep from building.

Jonny has his arms hooked under Patrick's knees, but he transfers one of Patrick's ankles to his shoulder before leaning forward. It opens Patrick up in an asymmetric stretch that shifts Jonny's dick inside of him. He's so slick with excess lube that it would feel frictionless if Jonny weren't so big.

"Look at you," Jonny says, and he brushes a thumb under Patrick's eye. Patrick shakes. "You're so good, baby." If he opens his mouth and begs Jonny to move or to touch Patrick's cock or to give him permission to come, then Jonny's going to pull out; but if Patrick doesn't beg, is he just going to stay like this? Spitted on Jonny's cock until Jonny releases him?

Jonny traces the front curve of the collar, and Patrick has to clap a hand over his own mouth to stop himself from pleading.

"I didn't think I'd ever have this," he says, and he shifts again; the key on the end of his necklace drags lightly over Patick's chest. Patrick's never fought so hard to control himself in his life, but Jonny doesn't want him to come and Jonny doesn't want him to beg so he's back to enduring. 

There's a moment of silence, and Jonny adds: "I never thought I'd give someone a collar." He touches the hollow of Patrick's throat, and then says, even more quietly, "I never thought I'd give _you_ a collar," and what drives Patrick over the edge is the implication that he's special.

He shoves a fist against his lips, but it escapes anyway: _"Please."_

He knows what comes next. Jonny's going to—maybe he'll chuckle, and say he knew Patrick wouldn't be able to hold out—that he knew Patrick wouldn't be able to beg prettily enough to convince him. He's going to pull his cock out of Patrick and Patrick's going to be left empty and hard, with his dick twitching against his belly and his entire body wracked with the pain of delay. He'll pull out, and then maybe he'll make Patrick get down on his knees, and that means Patrick will have to remember how to unwind his body enough to move. The anticipation's already making him ache with absence. 

But he feels a nudge against his cheek, and then Jonny's kissing him. Jonny kisses him soft and slow, and then he says, "Again."

Patrick peels his hand away from his mouth; his arm trembles until he reaches up and hooks it around Jonny's neck. He tries to drag his attention back together to say _I want you_ or _I love you_ or _ I'm yours_ or even _Let me come you jackass,_ but all he manages is, "Please."

Jonny still isn't moving even though Patrick's hole is clinging to him. "You want to come, baby?"

"Jonny—"

"Are you going to come around my cock?"

Patrick trembles even harder. "If you want," someone says. Is that him?

"If I want?" Jonny says. "Patrick," he says, "I _want,"_ and that's how Patrick comes.

He shakes apart in place; not once does Jonny move in him, although Patrick's hips jerk upwards of their own accord as he comes all over his stomach, and just that increment of motion drives Jonny's cock into him enough to make him toss back his head and shout. He's aware of being pinned in place beneath Jonny, and then he's aware of nothing. It's a good thing he has his collar to anchor him, or else he might drift away—

He hears someone sobbing. 

He hears himself sobbing, feels his chest contract and his shoulders hitch and the way he's curled into himself and he's an exposed nerve or a ball of light and Jonny must not understand that he's already come because he's fucking Patrick now, he's finally fucking Patrick, he's moving in Patrick, Patrick has blown past pleasure and now he's unfolding. It's too immense. He can't hold on to it.

"Peeks." He's being kissed even while he's crying. Too much of a good thing blows you open. It feels incredible. "Peeks," he hears. "Fuck. _Patrick."_

Something heavy covers him, and he shoves his free hand against his face to try to dam his tears. He's never felt release like this in his life; he might still be coming. "Shh, baby. It's okay. You're okay, let it out. You're so good for me." Jonny's holding him; that's better. "You're okay, Patrick," Jonny says. "We're okay." He's right. They are.

-

**Postscript.**

"Didn't you say you'd change the sheets?"

Jonny tightens his arm around Patrick. "Hey," he says. "I thought you dozed off."

Patrick shoves his face into the crook of Jonny's shoulder. He's feeling less like a man than a puddle. A puddle person. Puddle-Man. Either the exhaustion or the dopamine is hitting him hard. "Can't," he mumbles. "What if I roll over into the wet spot."

"I'll let you have the TV remote for a month if you can roll over right now," Jonny says.

"Watch me," Patrick says into the thick muscle of Jonny's shoulder. He's so tired. Satisfied, and also tired.

There's a pause, and then Jonny says, "I'm waiting."

"I'm not rolling over?" 

"No, baby."

"S'okay, I'll do it in the morning. Hey," he says. "Don't take my collar off."

Jonny laughs; Patrick feels more than hears it. "Okay, Peeks," he says. "You got it."


End file.
